The Parisian

by Isabella Hammad

  “Abu Taher I have to tell you something.”

  He twisted further to meet Midhat’s eyes. His skin was so clear that in certain lights he looked like a child. As though he had coiled too tightly, his body swung back round and he spoke to the display shelf of cravats.

  “There was—years ago now—I heard that someone put the evil eye on you. I remember … I remember Abu Salama telling my mother.”

  Midhat took a moment. In spite of himself, his body went limp.

  “Do you know who?”

  “No.”

  “But you think it was this person?”

  “I don’t know. People see you, they think … these are difficult times, Abu Taher.” Eli looked back, beseeching. “People are angry … what? Why are you laughing?”

  Midhat had put his head in his hands. “Because, habibi, we can’t blame everything bad on the evil eye.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve stopped.” He showed his palms. “Anyway, didn’t you just say it was years ago?”

  “It was.”

  “Well then, there’s probably not much we can do about it, is there?”

  “Yes there is. You can find the curse.”

  “Where?”

  “It will be in your house somewhere. A bird, probably. And a token.”

  Midhat’s head swung from side to side. “I’m sorry habibi but I just don’t believe that. I’m sorry. Two lamps! Ah, but—if it makes you happy I’ll have a look when I get home.” He hooted, and made his way down the stairs. “Yalla, let’s get to work.”

  Midhat was exaggerating his humour, exactly as he did with Fatima. The more paranoid and mystical his wife became, the more Midhat, with a grin, insisted on the evidence of their senses. But as the business of the day began in earnest, uncomfortable thoughts began to gyre. Was it possible that someone in Nablus bore such ill will towards him that he or she had resorted to magic to make him suffer? Regardless of whether one believed such things, bad feeling was bad feeling and caused damage in myriad ways. He ran over the characters from town. He thought of Jamil. But Jamil was family, and would never do such a thing.

  Midhat’s collaboration with Eli had been Eli’s doing: he said the idea came to him because of Midhat’s sense of style, and because of the interest he showed in their work at the Samaritan store. After Midhat agreed and they began planning the venture, Eli asked him whether he still had that album of drawings.

  “Album of drawings? What album?”

  “You used to draw clothes, when you came back from Paris,” said Eli. “I heard about it from, I can’t remember who.”

  The only drawings Midhat had ever produced were those doodles in the back of the old accounts book at his father’s store. He had ripped out and destroyed those long ago. Was it possible those crude sketches had been so magnified beyond their merits into an “album”? It must have been Jamil. Or Hisham. Nothing went unnoticed in such a town.

  “Oh yes, that one,” Midhat had said airily. “Yes, I threw that out long ago. I could make another. I might be able to remember the designs. With your help, of course, cher Eli.”

  Coming on the tail of the news about his father’s business, Midhat took pains to ward off any feeling that Eli was taking pity. One did not go into business with someone out of charity, of course, but it still felt necessary to accentuate his expertise as artist and businessman and intellectual, rotating a pencil between his fingers and staring into the distance, in support of the fiction that it was he condescending to work with Eli. Thus the relationship began with a kind of pretence, and continued in the same vein, since each man tended not to say precisely what he meant. For Midhat, this was born of a desire to impress and not to offend; in Eli’s case it was the inveterate caution of a member of an endangered sect trying to survive in another culture. It was not exactly customary for a Samaritan to go into business with a Muslim.

  Although Midhat never had any evidence that Eli kept secrets, he interpreted secrecy in many aspects of Eli’s behaviour. That tendency to wait before answering a question; that preference for silence over saying no. He found he longed for Eli’s confidence almost the way he longed for Fatima’s. In the end he resented his wife for reserving it; but if Eli was cautious he at least had cause. Only last week, he told Midhat, the Samaritans had woken to the sound of rocks showering their houses. “We are not even Jews!” he said, waving a necktie Butrus had asked him to examine. The more fearful among the Samaritans were leaving their quarter in the old city and joining the new settlement on Mount Gerizim. It was not as though one could take a pointer to the vandals and show them that in the annals of Greek and Aramaic the Israelites had splintered from the Samaritans as far back as the time of Moses. To a dispossessed farmer they were all the same, all “Jews.”

  One evening in the spring before the earthquake, Eli had invited Midhat to dinner. The last time Midhat had been to the Samaritan quarter was with his grandmother on that abortive trip for a love charm seven years prior, and indeed it had taken almost as long for Eli to invite him. On the way, they stopped to call on the old high priest, and found the front door to Abu Salama’s house open. The priest was not in the first room. Eli led the way into the second, calling out:

  “Good afternoon, Abu Salama.”

  It was quite possible, since Abu Salama was an old man, that he simply did not hear them approach. Or he may have been too slow to hide what he was doing. Either way, the instant they entered the room Midhat saw they had interrupted something.

  Abu Salama was sitting beside a young boy at a table on which a series of objects were arranged. In the centre, a long piece of parchment was held down with stones at the top and bottom, its four corners curling. A bowl of clear water on one side held a lace of colour; beside it slouched a pile of murky rags; on the other side, a pestle and mortar stood near a bottle of dark liquid. The residue on the neck of the bottle had a sticky sheen. At the edge of the table near Midhat and Eli lay an open paper of saffron threads. A rag hung from Abu Salama’s hand. Rather than greeting them the old man stared, his mouth a crack in the withered rock of his face.

  Midhat glanced at Eli for a cue. Eli’s skin had lost colour. He bowed at Abu Salama, murmured his greeting, and hurried Midhat out of the house.

  At the appalled look on his colleague’s face, Midhat realised he had witnessed something he should not have. He had long learned by example not to record what he must not see, but as Eli led the way in silence to his own home, Midhat’s instinct to ignore was overridden by some force of attraction. Part curiosity, part something less easy to define. Recognition—or, perhaps, affinity. That was a glimpse of a wider operation. The high priest was dyeing that parchment. There had been a smear of colour on the paper. And that was saffron he had seen, and in that sticky bottle some kind of juice or pigment.

  Throughout the meal Eli refused to meet Midhat’s eye. His bottom lip twitched and he stared so incessantly at his elderly mother serving the stuffed potatoes that at one point she asked, “What is wrong with you? Do I have something on my face?” Midhat was grateful for the silence. His colleague’s panic spoke transparently of shame. Which might signify that some documents the Samaritans sold to foreigners were faked—which might, of course, indicate some charlatanry in their other activities. Was it shameful? Not necessarily. He envisioned a foreigner, a Frenchman, holding the counterfeit document, interpreting the Samaritan specimen in his European library, sliding his authentic facts into the bookcase. And with that view in mind the real Samaritans went sliding about beneath the indices. They fabricated in order to be free, that was it: materially, because they were poor, but in other ways too. To invent one’s self was to resist the inventions of others: to forge was to author. It made perfect sense that the high priest did the dyeing, for instance, and not someone of a lesser stature. One needed to be precise in one’s fakery. It took delicacy, an artist’s eye, to choose the marks that would conceal.

  * * *

  When Butrus a
rrived at the store, an hour after Midhat was presented with the broken lamps, it took him three minutes to uncover the third. He had hidden it, entire, under a lump of fabrics, which he confessed was his habit in case the others went missing. Of the broken lamps he said: “It was probably a bat.” He took off his coat and set about scrutinising the body of the first customer with a tape measure dangling from his teeth.

  The rest of the day passed unremarkably, and Midhat excused himself ahead of closing time because they had guests for dinner. He reached home at five thirty; at six, the doorbell rang.

  “Good evening habibi!”

  Hani Murad stepped through the opened door in an overcoat shining with rain.

  “Good evening,” echoed Sahar, poking her head in.

  Midhat embraced them, and Fatima appeared from the bedroom wearing a black dress with a round neck. Droplet earrings sparkled from her earlobes, and a tiered silver necklace shone over the black silk on her chest.

  Fatima and Sahar had of necessity developed a strained sort of bond. There were only six years between them—one less than the gap between Fatima and Midhat—but it was enough for Fatima to feel some conflict about treating Sahar as an equal. Over the years she had become as obsessed with status as her mother once was, and at times appeared to lord it over Sahar, a tendency which Sahar, an expert at managing condescension, and preter-naturally capable of appearing both deferential and at ease, politely ignored.

  Although their family originated in the hills of Nablus, Sahar and Hani were the perfect type of free Jerusalemites. In fact, one might argue that the ultimate free Jerusalemite was someone who came from elsewhere, being unfastened in that metropolis by the distance from their kin. Sahar, who still worked as an activist both for the national movement and for women’s rights across the Arab world, including raising the marriage age and removing the veil, had become famous for speaking at rallies and demonstrations. The women she associated with came from all parts of society, including the fellahin; all classes, all religions.

  Whenever they spent time with Hani and Sahar, Midhat fancied his wife became, by contrast, more emphatic in her Nabulsi pride, more uncompromising even than she usually was, as though to embody the very spirit of the town.

  “Keefek, shu akhbarek,” said Fatima stiffly, kissing Sahar on each cheek.

  “How was the journey,” said Midhat, helping Hani with his coat. “Was it fine?”

  “Oh yes it was fine.”

  Fatima pointed a languid finger at the dining room.

  “Would you like to sit in here, please.”

  Fatima took Sahar’s bag to the guest bedroom, and Midhat saw Hani’s eyes follow her. His wife had dressed more glamorously for the evening than Sahar, who wore only a simple cotton dress.

  They sat in the lamplit dining room, Hani opposite Midhat, Sahar opposite Fatima’s vacant chair. The window showed a black sky, and they heard the rain like wings beating the glass. Fatima returned with a tray of salads on her best porcelain, a set of reticulated German plates. She was protective of these, with their gold butterfly edging and chain of yellow and pink flowers around the rim; they were a gift from her mother. Since they could not afford new china, it was imperative they take care of the ones that would never go out of fashion. The German plates had their own cupboard, with a double lock.

  “Where are the children?” said Hani.

  Fatima delivered a spoonful onto his plate. “At my mother’s.”

  “You miss them?” Midhat grinned, and winked at Sahar. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

  “So Sahar, tell us,” said Fatima. “This argument the ladies have been having in Tulkarem. Do you know anything about it?”

  “What argument?” said Midhat.

  “It’s just a silly rivalry.” Sahar smiled. “If I’m honest, I don’t know much either.”

  Fatima squinted as she served herself, and looked about to ask something else when Hani interrupted.

  “The thing about the women,” he addressed Midhat, wiggling his body a little from side to side as though digging a hole in his chair, “is that they are generally much better at cooperation than we are. We could learn a lot from them. These factions are a mess. Don’t pretend Nablus isn’t just as bad. I have to say. I try to find a road between my principles and cooperation but …”

  “It’s hard, I believe,” said Sahar, “for some of these people to imagine the future. They are worried about losing out. Whereas we women have always cooperated behind the scenes. So it makes sense that we would be able to put aside our … our …”

  “Selfishness?” Midhat supplied.

  “Yes, you could say that.” Colour came into Sahar’s cheeks. She had a kind of genial radiance that made everything she said sound pleasant. “But there is still competition, even with women. What I mean is that sometimes to cooperate is difficult in the present, because you can’t imagine the other side.” She made a motion with her hand to express an other side, as though folding dough. “Since we’ve never had independence, we don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Of course, that’s not what she says in her speeches,” said Hani. “You have to give a unifying message.”

  “Well, I don’t make many speeches anymore.”

  She smiled at Fatima. Fatima eyed her for a moment, then returned the smile with a demonstrative blink.

  “But people have learned from you,” Hani went on, addressing his wife. He turned to Midhat. “And it’s the way you say it. You know that’s more than half of it. Sometimes it’s just perfect coming from a woman. A woman can say anything.”

  “Can she?” said Midhat.

  “What about Qassam?” said Fatima.

  “What about Qassam,” said Hani.

  “What about the way he says it.”

  “Well that’s different obviously. Qassam is a preacher.”

  “But he’s effective,” said Fatima. “Especially after they found the weapons in Jaffa. People want to listen to him.”

  Midhat looked at her in surprise.

  “Among the fellahin, yes,” said Hani. “But of course it has a different … effect. I mean, having a woman speak,” he gestured at his wife, “It’s good for the Europeans. And for us. It’s a sign of enlightenment, a progressive society. It shows we can rule ourselves. That’s why I said a woman can say anything.”

  Fatima persisted. “But of course the British are frightened of Qassam.”

  “Oh absolutely,” said Hani, his eyes widening. “And they’re not frightened of women.”

  “So,” said Midhat, jumping aboard, “have you been much involved with Qassam then?”

  “We have had contact, yes,” said Hani. “He might be a potent ally.” He lifted his shoulders and opened his hands as he said this, as though excusing himself. “Besides Qassam’s group, nowhere, except perhaps Nablus, are people ready to rise against the British … militarily, ya‘ni, but also with civil disobedience, which for years I’ve been saying is the best way to resist. You’ve seen the reports, you know the numbers. The Jews are armed. If it comes to that, Qassam will turn out to be much stronger than these democratic so-and-sos.”

  There was a long silence. Midhat tore a piece of bread, and the steam whiskered off in the lamplight.

  “The house is beautiful,” said Sahar.

  “It is difficult to heat,” said Fatima. “We get a draught from the mountain.”

  “Good for the laundry.”

  “You’ve seen the garden before, haven’t you?” said Midhat.

  “Yes, yes,” said Sahar. “I remember from last time. It’s lovely.”

  “It’s a shame it’s too dark now, or I’d take you down to see the chickens.”

  “Why would she want to see the chickens?” said Fatima.

  “And the roses, and the trees, etcetera.” Midhat waved the bread in the air. “But I think the chickens are marvellous.”

  Sahar and Hani shared a smile. As they returned to their meal, Fatima stood up and walked into the kitchen.

&n
bsp; “It has stopped raining,” said Hani.

  “Well, we won’t go down to the chickens in the dark,” said Midhat. He waited for laughter, and when there was none added: “Shall I put on music?”

  “Wait until after dinner,” shouted Fatima.

  “She has the ears of a bat,” said Midhat.

  “You know we heard some wonderful music in Cairo,” said Hani.

  “Oh yes, it was wonderful,” said Sahar.

  There was no time to pick up this thread, however, because Fatima was returning, and it was necessary to coo over the meat steaming in its bed of spiced rice and pine nuts. Fresh plates thudded onto the table. Fatima said to Sahar:

  “So you are having a family?”

  Midhat, reaching for the serving spoon, frowned at her.

  “How did you know?” said Sahar.

  “You said you weren’t making any more speeches,” said Fatima. “I wondered.”

  After dinner, the women took tea in the salon. Midhat waited until they were out of sight, then raised an eyebrow at Hani. “Arak?”

  “Of course.”

  Hani turned in his chair and Midhat crouched before the cupboard.

  “Fatima doesn’t know.”

  “Know what.”

  “She thinks it’s milk.”

  “Does she!”

  “Some things you have to keep private. Ah—music, I forgot. Let me see, let me see.”

  Though weighed down by the meal, one sip of arak untied a cord around his brain and he felt lighter. He moved slowly over to the cabinet and slid his fingers through the pile of records. He chose a singer from Aleppo and dropped the lever. The strings commenced.

  “Sometimes I think …” he said.

  Above the orchestra, the voice was starting.

  “Tell me habibi, what do you think.”

  His friend leaned back, legs crossed, one arm over the chair. Hani had known him for years. Not only that, he had known him in Paris. He had not been in Montpellier, but still he was the only one who grasped something of the full shape of Midhat’s life. It might even be better that he saw it at a distance, always living in a different city. Distance allowed a special clarity, the outline of a coast viewed from the sea. Midhat sat in Sahar’s chair, and began in abstraction.